There are two cans of condensed milk in the pantry. I used to eat that as a kid, which kind of creeps me out. Then again, I used to eat breast milk as well and that is beyond creepy.

I worry about things a lot. I recall when I went to get my third Hep B shot it was just before finals and most of my class were in the student health centre. Cathal was asking the group at large how they felt about the exams -- most people were diffident, pretty much staying in the 'Okay as long as X doesn’t come up' zone. I had to inform him that I was terrified and incredibly worried and stressed. But Eoin told me that my worry didn't count because it raised the average worry level way too high, as I worry about everything.

And I do. I worry about everything. During the academic year I was mostly concerned with how not understanding the pulmonary circulation (among other things) was going to end up with someone dying on me. Or even just me being reported to the registrar for sucking, or something. More than one panic attack/crying jag came out of that thought, I can tell you.

So right now that's less of a concern, but I have to worry about something. I am by nature a worrywart. Except that worrywart sounds sort of cute and as if I wear lavender perfume and those little cameo brooches, which I so don't, and I'm not cute.

My writing is an easy worrying option. I would worry about it even if the general opinion were that I was the next Salman Rushdie (which I wouldn't want to be anyway -- I don't want to be the next anyone, I want to be the first me).

My mother says that this is All In My Head and furthermore that I am paranoid. Then again, I've never been able to figure out her angle either. I can't subscribe to the 'I love you unconditionally because I gave birth to you' idea, because if that was always the case there'd be no such thing as Social Services. One day I'm sure she'll slip up and I'll finally get why she even cares -- and what she wants from me -- but so far nothing doing.

It might surprise people to know that when I was in school, I was top of my class in art. I've taken art classes since I was a baby, and when I was ten I enrolled myself in an adult's painting class -- quite possibly the most independent action I have ever taken. When you're a kid everything's sort of free and akimbo, but I got a double whammy of self-consciousness when puberty hit. In my early teens my art teacher was always trying to get me to 'loosen up' -- to stop planning my drawings and paintings down to the tiniest detail and just let go. But I have never been skilled at letting go, because what I am is a very, very, very wound-up and inhibited person.

I think I have the same problem with writing. I feel like I always build a scaffolding of words and end up trapping myself inside it. I'm never able to get off the ground, where I'm reporting every little detail of the story, and concentrate on -- well, the story as a whole. I get mithered with dialogue and stuck in plot cul-de-sacs, and it's nothing that can be so easily cured as my former adverb addiction.

And yet … I don't think I could stop writing now. And that's odd, because I generally give up things I'm not good at very quickly. I was reflecting on that when I thought about my lj-versary. I stuck around even when I saw how difficult it was going to be for me. OOC much? Writing fills up such a big part of my brain. I'd be lost without it.

I guess that's why it hurts to think it's not hitting the right standard. At the same time, I do revel in misery. What better for indulging my habit than writing my heart out, doing everything possible to improve on it -- and getting a crap response? I remember there was one night just after I started reading in PoT where every link I clicked led to the most unbelievable dreck. Quite literally, anything I'd written would be better than what I read that night. And that's the most horrible, empty feeling I've ever experienced. Yes, writing owns my brain, but jealousy is what makes it go.

Well, I never said my worry was particularly constructive. After all, remembering the Hep B shots reminded me that I haven't yet had my blood tests and it's probably too late now and I'll have to go again for another three dates with needles at twenty quid a pop. Which blows, as you can imagine.

I also worry about my literary integrity. I got a Henry James out of the library last week and I couldn't even open it. Probably that was a bad move anyway, as one time I watched a late-night showing of Washington Square all the way through and afterwards sincerely wished that I hadn't. I suppose I should be forgiven for mixing him up with E.M. Forster because, um, the characters wear the same kinds of clothes in the films …

That's another thing. The single classic writer I like is Jane Austen, and that's only because she's the Victoriana equivalent of chicklit. (Or do I mean Georgian? Bleh. My study of European history began with Bismarck and ended with the Cold War, what can I say.)

We all know I hate Dickens. The only reason I know what happens in Nicholas Nickelby is because I watched the film version. An hour in, I realised that Nicholas was Nathan from QaF. Ten minutes in, I was slashing him with Squiffy, or whatever that dude's name was. Smithers? Um. (It's not my fault that I only found out at the end that I was propagating incest.)

I caved and just got out the Princess Diaries four and five instead. Don't say you can't learn anything from them -- I thought Imelda Marcos designed shoes, and it turns out she's a dictator's wife. I never knew until I read Give Me Five.

Yep, I also worry that I'm completely immature for my age. But remember that it's not constructive worry, so I'll probably never, like, change or anything. Sorry.

Hi! *waves* I just ended it up here by accident, but your first line caught my attention, so I decided to see what was behind the cut.

Do you know what you should that with those cans of condensed milk? Open one, add three big chocolate spoons, two of butter and heat it for about 5 minutes (mixing it up). It's really really good (but awesome if eaten alone with a big spoon). Although I hope your condensed milk is better than Russian - I tried it once, and it was quite terrible.

Also, you're two months older than me, and I related to most of the things you said (except that I can't draw or paint to save my mother's life). I do worry all the time about everything, even when I know it's useless, bu I still do. It's stressing - but apparently, I like it.